


My Dear Friend (I Want You Too)

by Sparcina



Series: Gotham at Night [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Confessions, Dirty Talk, Fuck Or Die, Idiots in Love, Jim is an idiot, Kissing, Lots of Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Oswald less so, Passion, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Sex Pollen, UST, but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 21:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: Jim likes to pretend he can avoid the truth, but when he gets dosed with sex pollen, he goes straight to Oswald, andthatis a confession in and of itself.





	My Dear Friend (I Want You Too)

**Author's Note:**

> Gotham gets to me. Gobbeplot is magic.

Jim didn’t hate Oswald. Not exactly.

What Oswald stirred up in him was… complicated, of the headache-inducing, lie-wide-awake-at-night variety. _Very _complicated.

(Or quite simple, when he was drunk enough to acknowledge why he lost his temper so much around the mobster, but that particular truth frightened him, and cops didn’t get scared easily in Gotham.)

The _issue, _so to speak, was Oswald’s obvious eagerness to indulge him. He would bend himself backward to earn one of Jim’s rare smiles, even to the cost of his followers’ support (although, Jim suspected, he always dealt with that lack of faith in his usual way). From the day Jim had chosen to save his sorry hide, Oswald had been the very definition of _nice _toward him, and for all his affable mannerism, the Penguin never truly liked anyone. Or trusted them.

(Jim, though, he liked him. And trusted him. It made no sense, but Oswald only ever made sense in his very own twisted way, unfathomable to anyone else).

His… affection showed in subtle ways. Mostly, it was the eyes—those startling green eyes that would light up like miniature exotic suns whenever Jim barged in the club to demand his assistance in a case. If eager friendship was a color, it would be the exact hue of Oswald’s eyes whenever they settled on Jim in those moments. Sure, Oswald smiled to others, often, but that suave smile of his never truly reached his eyes unless Jim was in the room.

And Jim, as a matter of fact, tended to be in Penguin’s vicinity a little too often.

On one side, he couldn’t help it that Oswald was so resourceful and desperately helpful_. _Harvey might like to make fun of Jim about it, but the truth was, Jim got a great deal of his leads at the Umbrella’s. The GPCD had solved more cases in the six months since Jim had started going to Oswald for clues than in the two years before that, and the trend just kept going.

On the other side… Jim wasn’t always looking for help in a professional capacity (that truth masquerading as a lie, again). Furthermore, he’d gotten into the habit of lingering at the Umbrella’s before _and _after his visit to Oswald’s office, anticipating and savoring respectively. And if his whisky always tasted better at the Umbrella’s, Oswald’s _help_ still fresh in his mind, well, he could always pretend he wasn’t rich enough to buy the good stuff for himself. He certainly couldn’t afford to wonder why Oswald indulged him so, even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

(He might be the only one whom Oswald trusted, the only one who’d not gone back on his word.)

(Or perhaps Oswald, too, felt feverish whenever the conversation escalated and threats were traded, Jim’s hands fisted in the mobster’s velvety suit, their faces a breath’s away, the tension so thick in the room Jim almost choked on it, and Oswald’s cheeks always turned pink so fast, _so pretty_, but only when it was Jim screaming at him, manhandling him, fighting against his own-) 

He didn’t want to consider why, even if he did, at times. And one of those times, he’d been both too drunk on good alcohol and nervousness to question his sanity, and ended up at a tattoo parlor. One hour had been enough for the pain to relocate in another part of his body.

The skin of his wrist still burnt long after the ink had set. Jim always hid it, even got to wear long sleeves in bed, it was completely ridiculous, but he also never challenged this spur-of-the-moment decision to go _there _and _do _that, so life went on.

Perhaps he should face the music.

Perhaps he should stop going to the Umbrella’s.

*

He actually tried. For a solid two weeks, he didn’t set foot in the Penguin’s stronghold, relying on his fellow officers’ work and his own capacity to function on backup energy. He caught three killers, stopped five robberies, arrested half a dozen perps and even got a good start on a case Harvey swore couldn’t get cracked without the mob’s help, and Harvey hated Oswald with a passion.

So what if he tried and got some measure of success? Where was the pride? That was what he should feel, or relief, at the very least. To his profound dismay, however, that ache in his chest only grew sharper claws. Whenever he slept (whenever he could), he had nightmares that left him even less rested than when he’d gone to bed. He knew he had to do something to fix this downwards spiral, but in his obstinacy to deny the truth, to avoid it just one other week, he made one mistake too many.

But seriously, how was he supposed to know that the goddamn vial contained _sex pollen_?

That was exactly what he shouted at Harvey’s face through the window of his car. In which he was slowly but surely going crazy. The mere contact of his clothes against his skin burnt, and the fact that his eyes told him that no, his skin was fine, didn’t help in the slightest. He’d looked in the rear-view mirror: his pupils were completely blown, the skin of his face and neck flushed, and his hands shook. He’d been on drugs before, thanks to Gotham’s numerous villains, and this was worst. 

He still glared at Harvey.

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

Harvey shook his head. “No can do, Jim. It’s written on the fucking vial: if you don’t get that dick of yours somewhere warm sometime soon, you’re going to die, and it won’t be pretty. Listen, I’ll hook you up with one of the girls at-”

Jim started the car. His hands kept slipping on the wheel and his vision was getting finicky at the edges, but he could still drive. At least for a little while.

“JIM!”

He wasn’t quite sure how he managed not to get involved into a dozen accidents in the next ten minutes. He knew for a fact that he drove way over the speed limit and got honked at by half the population of Gotham, but he had to keep going. The urge in his loins kept him vertical and functioning, if poorly, and it hurt, every part of him hurt, but he had to get there, had to-

If he’d been watching himself park his car, he would have given himself a ticket. Not only was it in a perfect diagonal, but also right in front of the Umbrella’s, where a clear No Parking sign stood in block letters, white against violet. Nevertheless, civil duties had to wait. He couldn’t think. Could hardly breathe. Every single inch of his skin was on fire and he ached, so fuck parking, for once.

The moment his hand touched the doorknob, the door to the club flew open. As if his body had been waiting for this moment to give up, invisible strings snapped, and his knees wobbled. The ceiling took a dangerous dive towards the floor, which meant that yes, he was falling.

“… me?”

Black spots swarm in front of his eyes. One of them took on the shape of a face. Familiar. Wonderful.

(Dangerous.)

“James?”

He passed out.

*

The palm on his cheek felt like a preview of heaven, if heaven still accepted cops from Gotham with a broken moral compass _and _a weak spot for a very specific dark-haired, pointy-nosed mobster who only ever wore three-piece suits.

Oswald, Oswald, Oswald-

Jim wanted to peel every single layer off that man’s body. The fever encouraged him to speak up, and he saw no reason to keep silent when the truth was so obvious. So simple. _Necessary_.

“Oh, James, you really need a doctor.”

The hand went away.

Jim scrambled to a sitting position and latched onto that fine-boned hand. Oswald yelped but went willingly enough. With a grunt, Jim tugged at him, repeating that thing about the too many clothes that needed to get lost now. He heard himself purr as his nose found Oswald’s exposed neck. He pressed his whole face there, darted out his tongue and licked. The whole thing felt surreal, but the way Oswald stayed still, half-sitting on the bed (was it Oswald’s bed? it smelled like him), tilting his head just so Jim had more skin to savor and kiss and lick, felt entirely too familiar.

He’d dreamt of this before.

“J-Jim.” Oswald was panting, and the sound shot straight to Jim’s groin. “You’re not well, we shouldn’t-”

Jim shook his head in an attempt to clear it from the fog of lust, not quite sure why he bothered. Enough pieces knocked into each other for a partial picture to form.

“It’s- I’ve come into- you smell _so good_,” he babbled. “’m so tired, a mistake- I want you, _fuck_\- I was hit- sex pollen- kiss me, touch me, _please_…”

Oswald stiffened at the words ‘sex pollen’ and promptly reversed their positions in a startling show of strength. 

“Oswald,” Jim groaned.

Oswald trapped his hands between their bodies. “Are you quite sure it was sex pollen, James?”

Jim had never been so hard in all his life (if he had, he certainly couldn’t remember), and the painful grip on his wrists only upped his desire another notch. He wanted more of Oswald’s skin against his, wanted Oswald completely naked, to taste and feel him to his heart’s content, and he really needed to have sex, or he was quite sure he would die, and he was never one to mess with the truth (he was), and would Oswald please, _please _let Jim fuck him? The hunger raged within him, all-consuming, and he was so very hard, delirious from it, almost, and why was he crying, why was the sudden absence of Oswald’s body excruciating? He tried to draw in air but his insides burnt even more fiercely than his skin-

“Oh God.”

Oswald’s hands, suddenly, miraculously, found his face again. Jim trembled as those long fingers moved down his cheekbones. When the tip of an index brushed his chin, he wrapped his lips around it and sucked it in his mouth. Meanwhile, his hands went to work on Oswald’s buttons, seemingly with a mind of their own. Dexterity, however, was beyond his current state, and he snarled in frustration, rutting against the thigh closest to him.

“I-” He choked. “-need. I need-”

Jim couldn’t get the words out, but Oswald had always been so very clever, and the clues were all there for him, half-linked already. Besides, wasn’t Jim his favorite puzzle among them all?

“I know what it is you need from me, James,” he said in a steady voice he only rarely ever used with him. “I will help you.”

Jim let out a strangled moan at the pressure on his groin. Oswald’s touch wasn’t hesitant; his hand was firm and decisive as it massaged the bulge in his pants. Jim’s hips bucked helplessly.

“Let me take care of you, my dear friend.”

Oswald’s knees hit the ground. Part of Jim screamed protests—figments of his reason on vacation, arguing that they were skipping too many steps in that dance—but Oswald lost no time in mouthing at him through the thin layer of his pants, and Jim was only human, only _weak _and _mad_ with desire, and that clever tongue swirled around the length of him in a promise of even better things to come. The need in his veins seemed to reach the very core in his being, and he moaned a name (screamed it), hips rocking desperately as clever fingers unbuckled his pants and pulled them down.

His cock sprang free, the tip glistening with precum.

“Ah, James…”

The green of Oswald’s eyes had gained darkness, and there was a liquid quality to it, like an unfinished painting. Jim ached to apply that final brushstroke.

He also wanted to drown in them, live in that ever-changing world where sense didn’t matter, where truths layered the landscape so easily they never had to be said out loud.

“Relax for me…”

Oswald’s cheek was cool, but his lips were warm, and his mouth so hot, so wet, and before Jim knew it, he had both hands in the other man’s hands, pulling hard. Just as he was realizing—in a very, very distant corner of his mind—that the gesture might cause a great deal of pain, Oswald let out a strangled sound of approval and hollowed his cheeks, sucking on Jim’s throbbing cock with gusto. He was really good at this, oh fuck, the best, _perfect_, and Jim told him so, generous in his praise, until the words became tangled together in a mess of whimpers and moans.

And Oswald sucked on, eyes wide and steady on him.

Had he been in his usual mind, Jim would have blushed. Had Harvey’s idea not caused him to take a leave of his senses, he wouldn’t be there in the first place, he knew.

(Sitting naked from the waist down in Oswald’s _bedroom_, legs spread wide, head thrown back and hands fisted at his sides as an eager Oswald—God, was when that clever man not eager to please _him—_drooled all over his cock with all the forwardness of a man on a mission. Jim watched the sinful stretch of those red lips and was tempted to trail a finger down a cheekbone, to feel himself in there.)

Oswald’s mouth felt wonderful, his tongue a searing hint on the underside of his cock, but the pain now at home in Jim’s body, that maddening urge to _fuck_, kept digging its claws deeper into the very fabric of his being. Agony spilled from his lips in a helpless whine.

“James?” Oswald rasped worryingly, letting go of his cockhead with an obscene _pop_. “James, what is it?”

Fingers snaked under his shirt and splayed over his chest, stroking the sweaty, fevered skin.

“… wald, Oswald, I can’t, it hurts, Oswald…”

“This is not enough?”

“Not- enough,” Jim gasped, tears of pain streaming down his cheeks. “’m sorry, it’s-”

“You need intercourse.”

Lust momentarily blinded Jim. When his sight came back to him, a filament of his real self, care and affection wrapped up in something even stronger, punctured the bubble of heat caging him.

“Don’t-” He tried to push Oswald back, but his efforts were weak-willed at best, and Oswald didn’t budge. “Will… hurt you- oh God, Oswald, you have to- leave…”

“Not a chance, James.”

Embarrassment had become so trivial in the wake of his lust that the words simply tumbled from his lips, a statement.

“I have… never done _ah_\- quite this b-before… _fuck_!”

“It’s quite all right, James.”

Oswald nuzzled at his inner thigh, then ran the tip of his tongue just behind Jim’s cock, probing his sack, and that promptly added another sublime layer to Jim’s madness.

“Worry not, my friend, _I’ve got you_.”

Oswald’s tongue, so sharp in a conversation, was soft and wet, pleasing, as it traveled farther back and teased the sensitive skin of Jim’s perineum. It didn’t stop there, though: it probed the intimate whorl of flesh between his asscheeks that Jim, for all his kinky sex over the years, had never been keen to stimulate.

And Oswald… he stimulated it all right; his tongue twirled around the soft muscle, flat and wide, lathering it with saliva, pressing not quite in but encouraging the muscles to yield. A strangled sound left Jim’s lips in spite of all his efforts to keep quiet. It felt weird, different, so very _dirty_, but it took the edge off the pain and Jim felt more tears stream down his flushed cheeks as the tip of that tongue glided in, stroking the pulsating walls of his throbbing ass.

It didn’t occur to him right away that while Oswald was doing this, he was also fingering _himself_. Opening himself for him.

“G-God…”

Oswald right hand went back to his face, thumb digging in Jim’s jaw. The command was clear: _look at me_.

So Jim looked. Stared at the arm half-hidden behind Oswald’s arched back, moving back and forth. Zeroed on his own thighs supported by Oswald’s shoulders. Oswald’s face came last, to be savored.

He looked… _wrecked_, lips slick with saliva, breathing ragged, throat bright red and those high cheekbones the most delicate pink in existence.

And this delicious sight stemmed from pleasure, pleasure at eating out Jim_, _at thrusting his own fingers into his hole so that he could stand on shaky legs and straddle Jim’s lap, could fist Jim’s cock and guide it to his opening, could sink down on it, slowly, all of his body shuddering.

“Here you go… _ah._”

Pain only made a brief appearance across Oswald’s features. As soon as the head popped in, gravity sheathed the rest of Jim’s cock in velvety heat. Unless it was his hands, grip bruising on Oswald’s hips, imposing a rhythm that was both too fast and too slow? Nails dug half moons into his shoulders, ten sparks lighting up his nerve endings, and Jim snapped his hips up, and Oswald let himself be lifted off his cock and pushed back on it, light and warm, a true panacea at last. His wet lips grazed Jim’s ear, a single word breaking free.

“Yes, yes, yes… _Yes!_”

He’d changed the angle on a whim, and the full-throated moan that escaped Oswald’s mouth was music to his ear. Acting on instincts kept too long buried, he pulled at Oswald’s hair and twisted his head sideways, biting down at the pale skin of his throat, tasting the frantic pulse beneath. His hips kept moving, quick little thrusts aimed at that sensitive bundle of nerves. The heat wrapped around his cock spasmed a few seconds later, and before Jim could truly savor the sensation, semen squirted out of Oswald’s cock, painting white lines on their chests.

Groaning the man’s name, Jim pushed Oswald off his lap and onto his back, and promptly rammed back inside. Oswald’s asshole hugged his cock like sin.

“Good,” Oswald whimpered, hands clutching at the back of his shirt, legs splayed wide in the clearest offering. “I can feel how close you are, James. Let yourself go, _come for me_…”

He came inside Oswald with a shout, but his cock didn’t soften at all.

“Fuck me,” Oswald commanded breathlessly, mouthing wetly at his shoulder. His teeth grazed the skin, causing Jim’s cock to twitch. “Go on, James. Give me all you have.”

So Jim did. He didn’t know how many hours went on, focused that he was on the pliant body in his arms. His orgasms followed one another, each more tiring than the last. Through it all, Oswald kept talking, voice increasingly hoarse, little keens and whimpered words, _James _and _yes_ and _more_ and Jim could never have imagined that his balls could produce so much sperm; it ran down Oswald’s buttocks, pooled on the silk sheet under them, and Oswald never told him to slow down, or wait, or stop, even though they both knew that it was too much, too fast, too _raw_.

The very last time Jim climaxed, he was completely wrapped up around Oswald, and three new words escaped from his lips. Oswald squirmed under him and let out a strangled cry, but by the time Jim could form an appropriate question (Are you okay?), darkness claimed its due.

*

He came to in the middle of the night, covered in dried cum and goosebumps. He yanked up the sheets at his feet, only to realize that this wasn’t his bed, or his room, and _oh fuck_, memories were coming back in a dreadful avalanche, once tantalizing wave of lust after the other fixed into amber.

When his mind cleared at last, he braced himself for the shock. Denial, maybe. Anger at himself, disgust and shame.

Quite suddenly, he became aware that he wasn’t alone.

Oswald was sitting on the other side of the bed, chin held high but pain so very obvious in his eyes. Acceptance was etched there, solid, and Jim felt a pang of anguish tug at his heartstrings. Oswald had always been so strong, and so very dependable. So much more than Jim.

The shock came at last. Mild, like the aftershocks of an earthquake that did even less damage than predicted. The shame was next, much stronger, but the pleasure still sang in his body, and the proof of Oswald’s own pleasure trickling down his thighs, well…

He pushed himself upright, eyes never leaving Oswald. He wanted to say something, _ached _to confess that the hunger still lived within him, that it was not merely the result of artifices. The night of the tattoo parlor came back to him. He opened his mouth, but no word came out. Pain flared brighter in Oswald’s eyes, and Jim felt desperate, helpless, _he couldn’t say it_, so he reached for the right sleeve of his shirt and tugged at the sleeve, again and again, because _it _itched once more, stronger than before, almost like an after-echo of the pollen or all those words still trapped inside…

Oswald brushed his hand away, and Jim let him. He stopped breathing as Oswald rolled up his right sleeve. The words he meant to say, he forgot.

“You never struck me as the kind of man to make such a decision,” Oswald said in a deceptively neutral tone, staring at the black ink on Jim’s wrist.

Jim gulped, chest constricted as Oswald’s fine-boned finger traced the clear lines of the tattoo.

“You are such a liar, even when you don’t utter a word, James.” Oswald’s eyes met him, held them. “But your body never lied to me.”

“Oswald-”

Oswald stared at him, expectant. Challenging. Jim wanted to grab him by his suit jacket and press him into a wall, feel the hot line of him trapped against his body, but Oswald was naked, was filled with his cum, and why, _why _was he still trying to _deceive himself_?

“I’m not…” He smiled, self-deprecatingly, twisting his wrist, watching Oswald’s fingers follow. Goosebumps had risen in the wake of Oswald’s caress. “… not very good at any of this, I’m afraid.”

“Start with the truth.”

“I want you too?” It was not a question, only the pretense of one. In a bold move he’d only trusted himself to make in his dreams, Jim reached for Oswald’s cheek and brushed one sharp cheekbone with his thumb. He watched, awed, as Oswald shivered, eyelids fluttering. “I want you,” he tried again, voice an octave lower. Affirmative, authoritative. “Never leave me,” he added in a whisper, repeating the words that had escaped him earlier. A synonym, really, for the swarm of butterflies in his belly.

A delicate flush bloomed on Oswald’s cheeks. Jim felt the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiled. It was the kind of smile, he knew, that Oswald liked best. The _honest _smile.

“Is that why you always trusted me? Because my body couldn’t lie?” he asked, hand tracing Oswald’s jaw.

“In part only.” Oswald brought one of Jim’s fingers to his lips, traced them with it, smiling that secret smile of his that used to drive Jim mad. “The thing with you, James, is that once you know the truth and accept it, you own it.”

“And I stick to my decisions.” Still a little afraid, Jim leaned in for a kiss.

Oswald’s lips parted for his tongue. Jim savored the taste of him, licked the roof of his mouth like he’d foregone every other taste in the world, content with _Oswald’s, _always. He could feel Oswald’s hand on his chest, covering the skin protecting muscle and flesh, his heart, and he squeezed his eyes shut before he could ruin the moment by, let’s say, crying.

(He would cry later, and so would Oswald, but neither pain nor sadness would be involved.)

“That you do,” Oswald whispered against his lips, licking at the trail of saliva linking their mouths, and those three words sounded just like Jim’s own confession.

Like a promise.


End file.
